


A Red River of Screams

by umbralillium



Series: Tumblr Fic [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, graphic description of a nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbralillium/pseuds/umbralillium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek are cursed to dream each other's nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Red River of Screams

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles and Derek are in an established relationship.

At first, they think the spell misfired or just didn’t work, except to knock both Stiles and Derek out for a few minutes. Stiles knows Scott told him the witch said something before Erica knocked her out, but he’s too busy checking to make sure nothing had been folded, spindled or mutilated to remember what Scott said. Everyone was alive and no one was bleeding, Stiles counted it as a win.

Derek said he’d take care of the witch, so they all took off to their respective homes. Well, Stiles and Scott did. Stiles had no idea where Erica, Boyd, and Isaac were staying, but, not his pups, not his problem.

He’s actually home at a decent hour, even if his dad’s not home to notice. He spends about an hour or so catching up on a few things in World of Warcraft. Sooner than he thought, though, his eyelids start drooping and he’s making stupid spelling mistakes in guild chat, so he signs off for the night and falls into bed without even taking the time to take off his jeans and shoes.

The dream doesn’t start right away. Or at least, it doesn’t get weird right away. At first, it’s just a normal morning from a few years ago, before Mom died. It feels like a Sunday. Stiles doesn’t know how he knows that, just that he does. Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table in his uniform, sheriff’s badge glinting in the sunlight coming through window above the sink, even though the sunlight never reaches the table. Mom’s setting a plate of sausages on the table and Stiles wants to say something about Dad’s heart, but his mouth won’t open.

The sunlight winks out and a laugh that sends chills down Stiles’s spine curls through the air. Stiles looks around, trying to figure out what’s going on. Mom and Dad just eat and share the newspaper like they always do. The smell of smoke starts to seep into the room and panic makes his heart clench. He tries to speak again, but nothing will come out.

Sweat starts beading at Stiles’s temples as the kitchen starts getting warmer. It’s with a fair amount of dread that Stiles turns his head to see flames licking at the tile, reaching for him, for his parents, who are still sitting at the table, seemingly oblivious to the fire eating away at their home. Stiles tries to yell, to tell them to get out, to get up from his chair, but he can’t move, can’t reach for them, can’t save them.

Then the screams start. A rising wail that climbs out of the basement that their house doesn’t have. Soon after howls join the screams. All Stiles wants is to get out, get away, get his parents to safety, but the fire sears his lungs and he can only watch it devour his parents while they sit and eat and talk.

He wakes with a scream, gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face. The door slams open and his dad’s there, calling his name, grabbing his shoulders. He grabs back, holding tight and burying his face in his dad’s shirt, gulping down breath after breath of clean air that smells reassuringly of family. This is so much worse than any nightmare he’s ever had before. For some strange reason, it feels familiar, like something he’s seen a thousand times, but he’s never felt that curling fear in his gut at just the sight of fire.

His dad rubs his back soothingly, talking softly, a calming patter of meaningless anecdotes from his day that’s been familiar since the first panic attack at his mom’s wake.

Stiles is almost calm again when there’s a thump on the roof and his window almost slams open. Derek tumbles in, wild-eyed. Dad jerks, hand going to his hip before he realizes his gun is locked in the safe downstairs in the den.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Stiles says hoarsely, not looking away from Derek. “You got my dream, didn’t you?” he asks.

Derek nods, short and clipped, not meeting Stiles’s gaze.

“Come here,” Stiles says, holding out a hand. Derek’s across the room in seconds, face pressed into Stiles’s neck, breathing deeply. Stiles slowly meets his dad’s puzzled and worried gaze. “In the morning,” he promises, combing his fingers through Derek’s hair.

Dad nods, eyes flicking to Derek sympathetically. Stiles doesn’t have to ask what Derek dreamed about. If it was anything like Stiles’s dream, he probably doesn’t _want_ to know, but, if Derek wants to talk about it, he’ll be there.

End.


End file.
